Revenge
by Timur2
Summary: [On Hold for a While] Five Years after the events of Predator II, druglords start dying again in L.A.. Lieutentant Harrigan, still haunted by his last encounter with the Predators must uncover the startling truth behind the deaths as he confronts the demo
1. Prologue

Revenge

By Timur

Disclaimer: The Predator franchise is the property of Twentieth Century Fox and is not being used for financial gain.

Author's Note: This story will make little sense unless you have watched Predator I, and especially Predator II, go rent them at your local video store today:-)

Prologue 

            It was cold, steel pressed against his body, others were holding him down on the table, his back ached. Large dark shapes were moving back and forth, they were talking, barely audible, but he knew they were discussing his fate. The unknown lingered all about him, more terrifying then the physical presence of his captors.

            Like a fog parting, their tall forms moved with eerie purpose. It was then he knew his dealings had been discovered. Inside he knew what he had done had been wrong, but this punishment was too much, nothing could have done deserved this. "I will change, release me and I will change."

            They ignored him, continuing without pause in their shadowed endeavor.

            "Brethren, I will restore honor, I have learned from my shame!"

            They continued their slow, solemn pace.

            He roared in rage, struggling against his captors, his shouts bellowed across the curved walls of his prison, echoing back as if to insult him further. Two captors stood between he and his punishment. The perfection in that metal abomination was unquestionable, its strength beyond his own, and its disgrace beyond anything he could possibly deserve.

Then his captors stepped aside; fear gripped his chest as another advanced upon him, instrument in hand.

            His flesh seared, as the flaming hot metal scoured his body.

            *          *          *

            The endless pain did not leave, yet he stopped his screams only a few hours after the punishment had been completed. The mark was more than the metal, more than the burned flesh, it was deeper… further then any blade could dredge. Their mark had destroyed him.

            Yet there was no rage in him for those who had Wielded the Blades. For there was a one who deserved his wrath more so than any one here, there was another that was responsible, one who had destroyed everything, one that would bear the suffering that was forced upon him. He did not know what would happen to him once his captors were finished, he didn't care. They could scour his body, but they would never stop him, they could never protect the one responsible.

            No matter what they did, he would have his revenge.


	2. Crazy Ivan

Chapter One – Crazy Ivan 

Los Angeles, California

2002 A.D.

     The soft sound of classical music echoed through the car as it drove through the dark alley. Heavy rain fell from above, and through its tinted windows an occasional flash of light could be seen and the distant rumbling of thunder could faintly be heard. Slowly, "Crazy" Ivan Saratov leaned back in his seat, his hard, steel-gray eyes scanning the alleys. It was in places like this he had gained his reputation, first as a petty thug, beating up whores and torching businesses that were late with their protection money, and later as leader of his own heroin ring. For thirty years, ever since coming to this country as a child turned cold in the heartless slums of the Ukraine, he had been a veteran of the Los Angeles crime scene. He had risen through its ranks, fighting fiercely for those who had his loyalty, and toppling them just as fiercely when he had the chance. Now he was one of LA's criminal kingpins, and he fought for nobody but himself, and the sprawling coalition of organized crime which he oversaw.

     The ruling chair of syndicate which he now ran was called the Slated Throne by some, the last three people who held it died gruesomely. The first, Daniel DiFrancini had been gunned down by the Jamaicans ten years ago, the second, Carlos Vascevo had been strung up and butchered by the L.A. Ripper, the third Rolan Marit had been found dead two weeks ago. Many people suspected Ivan himself of masterminding that piece of work. Ivan was content to promote that theory as long as it made people wary of his power, but he knew it wasn't true. It almost looked like a street mugging, except that Rolan had been missing half his intestines, and his skull had been cleaved off. He wasn't alone. Over the last several weeks, crime bosses, drug lords, even seemingly insignificant thugs had been turning up dead.

     Thinking about the attacks angered him, he didn't like things he couldn't explain.

     And that's why he was here, driving down an abandoned road deep in the warehouse district of LA. Ivan had ordered his lieutenants together to discuss the issue. Five years ago the same thing had been happening, of course it wasn't exactly the same. Back when the L.A. Ripper, as the police had dubbed him, walked the streets the carnage had been in massive proportions. Ten, twenty people at a time had been found brutally butchered. This time around the strikes were more surgical, El Cabala had been found strung up with two of his bodyguards at his Beverly Hills penthouse. No one else in the house had heard a thing. Juan Dominguez was left floating in the San Gabriel River without his heart. Once again, no witnesses.

     The music coming from his car radio was disturbing his focus. "Turn it off." Ivan ordered.

      "Yes sir." the driver said as he quickly turned off the music and Ivan once again stared out into the darkness.

     Everyone was taking hits, some drug and prostitution rings had already broken apart under the pressure of lost leadership. So far Ivan had been lucky, he had lost only a leg breaker and a coke peddler. The only other ones who had been as lucky were the Jamaican Posse, but then none of the constant turmoil of the city's crime scene ever seemed to be able to stop them. It had been five years since they had lost their ruthless leader, King Willey, to the L.A. Ripper, and they were still the biggest competition to his Cartel. Ivan fondly remembered the day that he had turned on his favorite news-zine, Hard Core with Greg Pope, and heard the news of Willey's demise, up until that point he had actually thought the L.A. Ripper had been some of Willey's boys, lord knows he had certainly been brutal enough to order such hits. Then one day the King had been found decapitated in a back alley, with his spinal column removed.

     Ivan remembered the stir that had made in the West Side underworld, not only because King Willey was the most powerful drug lord on the coast, but because very few people actually knew what he looked like. Ivan himself had bribed the county mortician to get a look at the mutilated corpse of his rival. Whoever had pulled it off earned Ivan's respect that day, he had sent word through his informant network to find the man responsible, he could use someone that resourceful, but no one ever showed up.

     Actually he was a little miffed at the fellow, he had been planning his own surprise for Willey, but then again so had every other drug baron in the city.

     The car slowly came to stop in front of an old, broken down warehouse. The graffiti covered, and crumbling walls of the building reminded him of the ghettos of Grozny where he had grown up as a child.  There were two men by the doorway of the building, hunched over an old and battered trashcan, warming their gloved hands and doing little to hide the automatic rifles they carried. The driver, John Novakovich, quietly opened Ivan's door and stood waiting with an umbrella ready. With a grunt Ivan got out of the car, even at the age of fifty he looked impressive, with a massive build and silver-streaked hair. Six bodyguards, three in each of the cars that flanked his, fell into line, creating a tight circle around their boss. Almost as if entering a funeral home, the entourage walked toward the warehouse entrance.

*          *          *

      "Someone tried this before, five years ago, it's the same damn thing", a tall, gruff man said as he leaned toward the table. Murmurs of agreement echoed his statement.

      "What's wrong McDarmid?", a greasy-haired giant of a man spoke up, "Afraid of a little blood?"

      "Fuck off Eddy, whoever this bitch is, he's killed four of my dope runners." Alexander McDarmid growled as he ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked up. Running a casual glance across the ceiling, then returning his gaze to the table, and the people seated around it.

      "Its not the same thing… this is calculated." A short, fat man, Don Sheridan, said as he nervously picked as a piece of lint on his sleeve.

      "What do you mean Sheridan?" Ivan asked as he took a cigar from his pocket.

      "The Ripper was just killing people at random. A few Russian's here, a few Spics there. This guy" Don paused for a second, making sure everyone was paying attention to him, "this guys a piece of work. He's not just shooting up people, someone's giving him targets."

      "What about the thugs. My man, Mike, he was nothing more than a breaker. Why'd he take him out?" Ivan asked as he put the Cigar to his mouth and lit it.

      "I don't know… target practice?" Alexander put in helpfully, and nervous chuckles echoed around the table.

      "It reminds me too much of Willey." Don said as he shook his head, "I can't think of anyone else who would do it. No one was as fucked up as that crazy Jamaican."

      "Willey's dead." Ivan's voice was flat and cold. "Whatever this is about, we survived it then and he didn't." There was a sharp sound as billows of rain started to pour from above, and cold winds swirled into the warehouse. Ivan frowned, "Someone shut that window."

     A man quickly took up the task, ascending the rickety wooden stairs that led to the second floor of the warehouse. 

      "Keyser Soze? Are we getting too close to his territory?" Don put in helpfully, ignoring the sudden chill.

      "No, he doesn't work on the west side."

      "Look, it doesn't matter who it is. All that matters is we stop this loon before he does any real damage." A thin, gaunt man put in.

     McDarmid spoke up, "You're right. I've been talking to my boys and they've started compiling a list. I think someone's called in outside help… a professional."

     Ivan was intrigued, "Explain."

      "Well, it's not anyone from around here. Probably someone from New York… I've done a few calls and it turns out that there was a guy, oh, maybe eight years ago, who pulled of a number like the one's were seeing now. Edward Smithson, butchered six people… cut out a few hearts, ate a few brains. All sorts of sick shit."

     A cool breeze blew across the room, Ivan was getting annoyed. "Damn it, someone shut that fucking window, now!"

     A black blur momentarily cast a shadow over the table, as the hanging ceiling lights were blocked by a falling object. The bloody body of a man slammed into the table, blood splashing across several seated at the table.

      "Holy Shit!"

     A whirring sound rumbled through the air, then the warehouse became pitch black as all the lights blacked out simultaneously. For several seconds, an eerie silence prevailed, with the shocked men struggling to draw their weapons, and defend themselves. 

     It didn't stay quiet long.

     A flash of azure blue light flared brightly from somewhere on the warehouse catwalk. It flew with blinding speed, impacting with McDarmid's chest. In the light, Ivan saw blood erupting from a gapping hole in Alexander's chest as he dropped to the floor, like a marionette with his strings cut.

     Gunfire erupted from each of the twenty men in the room, Ivan himself wielding a Glock, firing at where the indigo fireball had came from. The hail of fire was deafeningly loud as chunks of rotting wood began to rain down from the ceiling. There was a thud as something landed on the warehouse floor.

     A blood-curdling scream, in the muzzle flares, Ivan saw one of his bodyguards being vaulted in the air. Blood splashed onto his Armani suit as another bodyguard had his head sheared off. Now the gunfire was chaotic, everyone was firing everywhere, bullets raked the room, Ivan saw another lord get shot by his own men in the chaos.

     A stinging pain bit into his arm, he was knocked on his back by the force as a stray bullet nearly blew his arm off. He had his wind knocked out of him as he hit the floor. Men were still firing like crazy, the only pauses came when they were desperately trying to reload, or when another blood-curdling scream echoed through the warehouse.

     From his vantage point of the floor, still gasping for air, Ivan saw two other men get cut down, one with his throat missing, and the other with his back and neck twisted at impossible angles. As the screams replaced the gunshots, Ivan began to push himself off the floor.

     If he ever got out of this alive, the first thing he was going to do was disembowel the bastard who shot him, then he was going to get every hit man this side of the Rockies after whatever son of a bitch was responsible for this. He was still thinking of revenge, too deep in thought to notice the ghostly quiet that had settled in air, when something shoved him back onto the ground.

     Someone heavy was on his chest, through the red haze that his eyesight had become, Ivan thought he saw something hovering over him, something ephemeral, like hot air passing over pavement. He tried to lift his gun up the fire at the thing, but it was violently knocked away, and went skittering across the concrete floor. From the corner of his eye, Ivan noticed three red dots crawling languorously up his arm, Ivan was still trying to figure out what they were when another blast of blue fire blew apart his skull.


	3. Survivor

Disclaimer: The Predator franchise is the property of Twentieth Century Fox and is not being used for financial gain.

Author's Note: This story will make little sense unless you have watched Predator I, and especially Predator II, go rent them at your local video store today:-)

Author's Note: In response to some people's questions: Yes, this Harrigan is the same one played by Danny Glover in Predator II. Chapter Two – Survivor 

            "Good Morning Los Angeles, this is Robert Soderberg with RCSROX radio, looks like we're in for another scorcher of a day with humidity still high after last nights' rain storm, and temperatures are expected to reach a hundred and ten degre--" the car's radio stopped abruptly as it was switched off.

            "Hey, what'd you do that for?"

            The big black man reclining lazily in the driver's seat of the beaten up Chevy '99 took his time in responding. "Because, son, I don't need some talkin' head telling me how hot it is, or how hot it's going to get."

            The broad-shouldered Italian sitting in the passengers seat smirked, "You know Harrigan, you wouldn't be able to feel the heat if you had ever gotten around to fixing the air conditioning on this trashcan."

            Harrigan chuckled, "Nah, Old Betsy's been through a lot with me, I like her the way she is. You youngsters just don't appreciate a classic."

            This time it was it was Harrigan's partner's turn to laugh.

The Italian was about to respond when the car radio suddenly burst into life, filling the car with static and the whining alarm that announced the start of a high-priority feed. "All squad cars in the vicinity of Ulster and Tufts report to 1336 Kesh Road to investigate a probable multiple-homicide."

            Lieutenant Michael Harrigan picked up the mike, "Harrigan and Samuels en route." Just as he finished speaking David Samuels took the siren from under his seat and latched it to the roof of the Chevy. 

*          *          *

The howling siren echoed through the streets as the banged up maroon-colored car zigged and zagged its way through the traffic. Other cars swerved out of its way, and paused just long enough for their drivers to lean out the windows and throw curses. "I'm telling you Samuels, things never change. Twenty-four years I've been on the force and thing just don't change. These idiots still don't get out of my Goddamn way!"

"Ah lighten up old man, you sound like you're ready for retirement." 

"In your dreams hotshot, I could still take you down and you know it. Hell, if you clocked half the time in the gym that I did you might be able to keep up with me for five minutes!" Well, Harrigan thought, maybe not that easily, but for his age he was in great shape. Harrigan spent three hours a day at the gym keeping his impressive physique in top form, and though it was getting a little tougher on the bones, Harrigan knew he wasn't going to turn in his badge for a pension anytime soon.

The beeping of the radio brought Harrigan from his thoughts. Samuels spoke up, "We're getting additional details about our call-in from HQ." After a short pause Samuels punched a few buttons on the car's Uplink computer. "Prelims just coming in, some grandma called in a disturbance last night, she said she heard a lot gunfire from across her apartment, some beat-cops just did a mandatory follow up. Looks like what grandma heard was a real nasty gang fight. Wow…"

"What?" Harrigan asked.

 "Prelim says we've got twenty, maybe twenty five bodies."

"Must have been one hell of a fight. The Jamaican's and the PR's?"

"Be damned if I knew. HQ's not telling me much…"

            As Harrigan sped through a red light, siren blazing, a black Mercedes shot forward through the intersection. Samuels turned his head to get a better look at the car, but it quickly turned down a side alleyway.

"Looks like your friends are getting sloppy Harrigan."

Harrigan turned his head around, just catching a glimpse of the Mercedes as it disappeared behind the alley. "Great, just what I need… Dumb and Dumber." Harrigan said as he continued to weave his way through traffic.

            "Damn, who are those guys, everywhere we go they follow us." Samuels said, and Harrigan only grunted in response.

Samuels sighed, "Harrigan, I've been your partner for three years. Why don't you just…"

"Forget it, it's not important."

"Harrigan, whatever it is, it's pretty damned important, I even talked to the Chief about these guys, and he just acted like I was seeing things. Hell, their car has government plates, doesn't that bother you just a lit…"

Harrigan harshly cut him off. "I said forget about it." This time, Harrigan's voice left no room for argument. 

He was a little sorry about snapping at Samuels, but he didn't like being reminded that everywhere he went, whether it was on patrol, or to a friends' house, there were Feds following him. In fact, even though his partner didn't know it, they had been following him for the last five years. 

It started soon after his fight with…It. He didn't like thinking about that thing, it had killed a lot of people he knew well, and he wanted to put the dark memories of those bloody nights out of his mind. The Feds weren't helping. Five years ago, when this all started, the government had been doing their own search for the violent alien that was stalking people through L.A., covering up it's bloody trail as they tried to trap it. After their capture operation fell through, they were the ones who helped give credibility to the excuse that the city officials had thought up, planting evidence and forging letters from a supposed serial killer: the L.A. Ripper. Harrigan knew it was all bullshit, and he personally blamed them for the death of his old partner, and best friend, Danny Trujillo. Though it was the L.A. Ripper who killed him, Harrigan knew if that they had been told what they were going up against, that things would have played out differently. If there was one good thing that the alien had done, it was to whack the Feds in charge of the capture operation as they attempted to apprehend it; if the alien hadn't, Harrigan would have had to do it himself.

This new pair of shadowers was the fourth bunch to tail him and they were the dullest yet, seeing them try to sneak about was as unnoticeable as a bear going wild in a glass factory. Harrigan gave nicknames for each pair that had taken it's turn to keep tabs on him: the first were Moe and Curly, then Dipstick and Dipshit, then Turner and Hooch; these two were Dumb and Dumber. Harrigan guessed that the reason the Feds put so much time and effort into watching him was because they thought that the aliens might contact him eventually, or some shit like that. Well, if they were waiting for something supernatural to happen, they must have been disappointed by now; he hadn't heard or seen anything remotely alien since the night he tracked down and killed the Ripper. Harrigan prayed that it stayed that way.

The rotating red-and-blue lights of police cars, brought Harrigan's attention back to the present. A smattering of patrol cars were parked haphazardly in front of what looked like a dilapidated warehouse. A patrolman on foot waved Harrigan past a temporary police blockade and the tired detective put thoughts of aliens and government agents away as the pulled up to the crime scene.

*          *          *

"Good morning gentlemen", the tall and thin Captain McClintock said as he moved toward the warehouse's only door, "have a look inside, but hold your breath, it stinks worse than my place after my wife tries to make dinner." He held open a ratty door that creaked on rusted hinges, and a few dry and nervous chuckles came from the four officers waiting near the entrance.

A gust of warm air burst through the doorway, the heat making the stench even more unbearable. It smelled like a slaughterhouse floor… after seven days of not being cleaned. Harrigan, fighting the bile that was rising up his throat, covered his mouth with his hand and Samuels took out a handkerchief to mask his face with.

Blood was everywhere, covering the walls and floor in a myriad of strange designs. Several bodies were lying around the warehouse floor, their expensive suits stained with dried blood. The entire place was cordoned off with a web of yellow tape, and several uniformed officers walked gingerly about. But even with all the blood, Harrigan could only count four or five bodies. "I don't see twenty bodies…"

"Look up Lieutenant" Samuels said, as his handkerchief dropped to the floor. Harrigan slowly shifted his gaze upward, the walls growing more and more clotted with blood the higher he went. Finally his gaze reached the rafters, hanging from each of the support beams were the skinless bodies of men. Some had had their chests ripped open, others their skulls ripped clean off. 

The first thing that flashed through Harrigan's mind was an image of the rafters where Danny had been strung upside-down and butchered. His lunch began to rise up his throat. Harrigan pushed past Samuels and ran towards the warehouse exit.

As he burst out of the warehouse, the hot smog tasted like a sweet country breeze and Harrigan inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. But the image of the hanging bodies, slowly dripping blood from their skinless forms, felt like it was burned onto the back of his eyelids and wouldn't go away. Harrigan had to sit down on the sidewalk before his knees gave out on him.

            Samuels was quickly at Harrigan's side. "Damn, what kind of psycho would do something like that?"

            Harrigan didn't respond. In his mind images, images that he thought were pushed so deep inside his brain that they would never haunt him again, were swirling with unbidden ferocity. A burnt-out garment factory, covered with blood and the bodies of drug dealers, a gutted subway strewn with slain commuters. Harrigan didn't want to go back into the warehouse to have a close look at any of the bodies; that would only confirm his fears.

            "You okay Harrigan?" Captain McClintock said as he stepped out of the warehouse.

            "Yeah, just give me a second." Harrigan sounded suddenly very tired.

            "Sure thing Lieutenant." After a brief pause McClintock started speaking again, "Forensics thinks that there was some kind of meeting that took place inside the warehouse. Looks like the sides didn't really agree with one another and it turned violent. The place is certainly shot up enough for that to make sense." Harrigan grunted and the Captain continued, "Either way we picked up a survivor. Some skinny guy, hopefully he'll come out of shock soon."

            "What?" Harrigan asked, confused.

            "Did you just hear a thing I just said?"

            "Yeah, yeah…" Harrigan said as he shook his head clear, "I hope your right."

            "Me too. Probably some loon Russian with that went on a sadistic spree, according to Forensics everyone but the Russians got hog-tied on the rafters. I wonder if he's trying to mimic the Ripper, God I hope not."

             "Well, lets hope that the guys responsible for this doesn't get any ideas… one lunch-break like this is enough for me." Samuels said as he peeked inside the building quickly.

            "I'm sorry to burst your bubble Samuels, but this isn't the only one."

            "What?" Harrigan said as he got back on his feet.

            "For the past several weeks, we've been getting scattered reports of homicides occurring among the ranks of top LA crime lords.  This is the first crime inside our jurisdiction, most of them were out in the suburbs and Malibu hills, where most bosses live. But the M.O. for those hits were just like what we're seeing here; butchered bodies, killed in highly mutilated, and visible ways. Well, not just like this. None of the others were nearly as bloody, just one or two people, but the same bunch of guys responsible for those killings might be our perp. "

            "Captain, can we please talk about something else? I feel like I'm going to loose my lunch." Samuels said as he sat down next to his silent partner.

            "Sure thing kid. I think we should go on over and talk with our new friend." The Captain began walking toward a group of police cars where an officer was speaking Russian to man in a blood-splattered gray suit. "What have you go out of him so far Smith?" the Captain asked as he came to a stop about five feet away from the witness.

            "Not much sir. All we know so far is his name… John Novakovich, and we only know that because we looked inside his wallet. Something scared him up real bad sir, he's to afraid to speak."

            "Novakovitch? Is he Hungarian?", Samuels commented.

            "Nope, he's Russian. He had a tourists visa, though if he was part of this mess he's probably over here for mafia work."

            "Captain", Harrigan spoke up,  "you said that forensics thought that the Russians were responsible right?"

            "Yeah."

            "Then why didn't they either kill this guy or take him along with them?"

            Before the Captain could respond the sound of screeching tires burst through the alleyway. At first Harrigan thought it was just some local hoods breezing through. A motley assortment of vehicles, ranging from black Benzes to light green Cadillacs turned from various street corners and slowed down in front of the warehouse. Whoever they were, they had to be pretty stupid showing off in front of the thirty cops that were stationed around the building. Then the guns came out.

            Out of the rolled down window of a black and red Chevy, a shotgun barrel fired, shattering the front window of a patrol car. A machine gun burst from another car blew the left hubcap off Harrigan's car. As soon as the first shot rang Harrigan dropped to the floor, handgun out. Several officers had already started returning fire, and more were joining the fray. With the precision gained from years on the force, Harrigan was picking his shots, firing into the dark windows of the collection of cars.

"This is Captain Alex McClintock, calling for assistance at 1336 Kesh Road, we are under attack, I repeat we are under attack!" A voice broke through the firefight; soon it was followed by a yell from across the alley "Officer down!" 

These couldn't be just gangbangers, no one had that much of a death wish. "Who are these guys?" Harrigan asked as he reloaded his pistol.

From the cars, two-dozen men garbed in a variety of colors and heads replete with dreadlocks, came running, spreading out behind the cover provided by their makeshift vehicle blockade. "Looks like the Jamaican posse sir!" Samuels said as he fired the remainder of his clip. The alley was a picture of chaos; two officers lay spread on the ground in the middle of growing pools of blood. Seven Jamaicans had already fallen, yet the remaining survivors showed no sign of backing off.

            A burst from an AK-47, sounding like a clap of thunder, shattered the window just above Harrigan's head. With a grunt Harrigan got up, broken glass falling off his head and shoulder, and fired three times into the chaos. 

            "Thirty cops? Who the hell is stupid enough to attack thirty cops? These guys are either suicidal or hepped on angel dust!" Samuels said as he began to reload. To his left a young, burly officer with dark brown hair replied while he reloaded his shotgun.

            "However they are, they're going to be dead." With that said he rose up on one knee and fired into the alley, taking the head almost clean off a Jamaican gunman.

            Fire continually pored from the Jamaican side of the street, aimed almost entirely at the group of cars where Harrigan knelt. "Damnit! Why the hell are they only shooting at us?" asked Samuels as he lifted his arm over the side of the car and fired.

            "I don't think they are Samuels…" the Captain was interrupted as four Jamaicans, screaming loudly, charged straight at where Harrigan and Samuels were crouched. Captain McClintock paused his return-fire as he reloaded. As he rose to fire a bullet hit him the arm and sent him sprawling. The Jamaicans didn't bother finishing him off, instead firing at the ground where Novakovich lay hiding. Harrigan quickly blew away the attackers before they could get a bead on the terrified Russian. "They're going after the Russian!" Captain McClintock yelled as another of the officers knelt over his arm.

            "Damn!" Harrigan said as he fired once more into the chaos, "Get him out of here Samuels!" He turned to the twelve officers near-by "On my mark we lay covering fire. Smith, Clark… go with Samuels!"

            "Sure thing boss." Clark said as he reloaded his handgun.

            "Go!" with that ten cops stood up and started firing, and three figures broke away from the group and faded away into the alley, almost unnoticed amidst the screams of the wounded and the shooting of the police.

*          *          *

            Samuels sprinted down the alley, and spoke into his walkie-talkie simultaneously. "This is Agent Samuels, we've got our witness and we're coming. Meet us at," Samuels looked around for a street sign but couldn't find any. "Meet us about two blocks from the shootout scene."

            The walkie-talkie crackled in response, "Roger that Samuels, we are on our way." Dirty water splashed up onto him as he ran through the muck-infested alley. "This is what I get for wearing my good slacks!" Samuels growled as he continued running, his eyes fixed on the task of dodging the large puddles of murky water that littered the pocked surface of the alley. 

One of the three men with him looked around warily. "Sir… I thought I heard something, do you think that we shook off all the Jamaicans?"

            As if on cue, a clattering sound echoed through the alley as loose bricks dropped from above, banging noisily on the street below. Samuels looked up to see where it had come from, but saw nothing but the old and crumbling rooftops of the warehouse district.

            A fountain of water erupted behind Agent Samuels, he spun around, his gun flying into his hand. He looked out into an empty alleyway, there was nothing there.

            Novakovitch didn't seem to think so. He screamed, pointing frantically at the spot where the water had originated, speaking hysterically in rapid-fire Russian, and scrambling to get out of the grasp of his guards. Samuels looked again where the Russian was pointing, but once again saw nothing but the empty alley.

Or did he? A second smaller splash soon appeared close to the first burst of water, followed quickly by another splash. The murky water rippled once more, and the sound of crackling static erupted from the pool. Blue lightning began to flash, encircling some unseen form. There came a throaty growl from the thing as the blue sparks came more and more rapidly. A form began to emerge from the glimmer, and the twisting tendrils of azure light. It moved quickly, leaping form the pool of water and for the briefest moment it could be seen. A brown blur, its eyes flashed an eerie yellow as something bright and blue shot across the alleyway from the beast's shoulder, impacting with Novakovitch's skull and turning it into a shower of fine red mist.

            Samuels and the two officers with him burst into action, bringing their side arms up and firing with wild abandon. Sparks cracked across whatever the hell it was, but the bullets didn't seem to stop its advance. Agent Smith was suddenly hoisted into the air, and hurled against a far wall, impacting with a sickening thud. Metal claws materialized from its ghostly form, and there came a metallic whirring, as another agent gurgled; his throat was slit, blood spurting out of the gaping wound. The glass-like thing spun around and shot towards Samuels. He didn't have time to scream.

*          *          *

            Police sirens filled the air, as squad cars began arriving at the shoot out scene. The Jamaicans, surrounded and outgunned, fought on defiantly but they didn't have a chance. The last ones were pinned down behind their cars by a hail of gunfire, and one by one succumb to the police onslaught. As the last one fell to the ground, a gaping hole in his back, a smoky quite settled into the air. The police quickly began to tend for their own wounded, loading the seriously injured into the ambulances that were also arriving on the scene.

            Harrigan, though he had several scrapes and cuts along his back, turned down the medical help that was offered to him; there were others who needed it more. He was more interested in where his partner was.

            A pretty brunette-haired patrolwoman walked briskly towards him. "Lieutenant Harrigan?"

            "Yeah that's me."

             "Captain McClintock wanted me to find you. I was part of the team that was sent to rendezvous with Agent Samuels, but he never showed up. We're doing a search of the vicinity right now, but he didn't give specifics on where he was headed."

            Harrigan didn't bother waiting to hear the rest of the report, he immediately ran down the alley he had sent Samuels: he had lost one partner to the Ripper, damned if he was going to loose another one.

*          *          *

            The dank alleyway was eerily quiet, with only the echoing sound of his footsteps making any sound. "Samuels? You there?" His echo was the only response. The alleyway twisted and turned, but remained totally silent. Suddenly Harrigan stopped moving; he thought he heard a light buzzing sound coming from around a turn in the alley. He slid his gun from its shoulder holster, and spun around the corner. There were black swarms of flies buzzing angrily, hovering over what looked like bodies. "Oh Shit!" Harrigan ran towards the corpses, ignoring the water as it splashed onto his pants. There were three corpses littered on the floor, blood mingling with the bilge water that seemed to permeate the place.

            A scraping noise was the only alarm that Harrigan had as strong hands grab him from behind. Harrigan reacted quickly, jabbing his elbow into the man's ribs and pointing his gun at his face. A dazed Jamaican, dreadlocks swinging and doubled over in pain, was in the alleyway with him.

            He was about to order the man to spread out on the ground when something sharp cracked against his skull. In a dizzying blur, the world faded into darkness.

*          *          *

Slowly Harrigan awoke, his head throbbing in pain. He was flat on his stomach, the sticky vinyl of a car's backseat pressed against his cheek. He tried moving from his awkward position to get a look at where he was being driven, but found his hands and ankles tightly bound with piano wire. A deep chuckle came from somewhere, and an equally deep voice broke through Harrigan's cloudy thoughts.

             "Pleasant dreams mon, you be gettin' ready for an important meetin'. Now it be time to sleep." A cloth rag was shoved on top of his mouth, the sweet smell of ether was the last thing Harrigan sensed before everything went black.


	4. Revelations

Disclaimer: The Predator franchise is the property of Twentieth Century Fox and is not being used for financial gain.

Author's Note: This story will make little sense unless you have watched Predator I, and ESPECIALLY PREDATOR II, go rent them at your local video store today:-)

If you want to hear what the characters in this story sound like, go to http://www.geocities.com/eyesofthehunter to get some sound clips from Predator II. Chapter 3 - Revelations 

            A sea of pitch black greeted Harrigan as he opened his eyes. His first reaction was one of creeping fear, fear of the unknown. Ignoring the churning of his stomach, he tried to shout but found his mouth filled with cloth. He struggled briefly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that he was being restrained by something.

            A deep, rumbling chuckle filled the air. Slow, almost melodious, it triggered a memory somewhere in the back of his mind. The low laugh continued for a while, He was certain now that he had heard it before but he couldn't put his finger on it. Foggy pictures of an alley slowly came to focus in his minds-eye, and just before he could tag its owner the laughing stopped, leaving Harrigan once more in total silence.

            _Whoosh._

The world suddenly ripped back into color, Harrigan had to close his eyes as his mind was assaulted by a wave of new sensations. His eyes adjusted quickly, but not much had changed from the dark void he had just been in. He was tied-up; Harrigan could feel the binds acutely now, almost cutting the circulation from his wrists and ankles. He was bound to a chair, and there was a faint light swinging somewhere from above. The light's dim illumination made everything lying more than three feet away bleak and shadowy. Harrigan saw large dark figures moving slowly back and forth just beyond the scope of his limited vision. Harrigan looked away from the moving forms, and looked closely at his surroundings. Wherever he was it was big, Harrigan guessed that it had to be at least three stories high, and as big as half a city block. He could just make out the silvery hue of an angular staircase.

His view was disrupted as a man circled in front of him, a Jamaican, holding a black hood in his hand. Harrigan tried confronting his captor, demanding to know why he was here, but his words were muffled behind a wad of cloth that had been taped over his mouth.

That dark, low chuckle filled the air again and a throaty voice, with a thick Rastafarian accent, echoed around the building. "Take it off."

Harrigan winced in pain as his gag was quickly torn off his face.

The bulb above him clicked off and for a second the building returned to total darkness. Then a light came on, low and red, it didn't provide much more illumination than the sole bulb had, but details of the entire building were at least partially visible. Harrigan now saw what the swinging masses were. They were beef. Large slabs of meat, cow carcasses, were swaying slowly back and forth, held up on crossbeams by metal cables. It was a slaughterhouse.

            "Remember when I talked to you about the otha side?" the thick, gravelly voice came from the shadows in front of him. He strained his eyes, but he found it useless, nothing was distinguishable through the gloom… yet that voice was one Harrigan could not forget.

            "You're…"

            "Let me see if I can be helpin' your memory." A slight pause, then "There's no stopping what can't be stopped, no killin' what can't be killed…" As the voice went on, there was a movement in the shadows, a figure was slowly moving towards the light. "This is dread mon, truly dread". About five feet away from Harrigan, the glow of the light bulb slowly illuminated the features of the man.  Walking with a slight limp, an ivory cobra-headed cane in hand, he came out of the murky blackness. His dreadlocks surrounded his angular face like some strange parody of a crown, slowly swaying back and forth as he walked. His eyes where cold and hard, with an indescribable glint in them which was only accentuated by the murky, red light. Those dark eyes are what brought the man's identity crashing into Harrigan's mind.

            King Willey.

            Noticing the recognition in Harrigan's face, Willey smirked slightly, a motion that looked grimly macabre in the gloom. "Ahh, you remember now. I be thinkin' we hit you on the head a bit to hard. Wouldn't want you to be too hurt would we."

            "But you're…" Harrigan stammered in disbelief.

"Dead?" King Willey laughed again, "Who be tellin you dat mon? Da bones?" once again Willey chuckled.

            How the hell was King Willey still alive, and why had he kidnapped him? Harrigan tried frantically to remember his encounter with the King. It had at the height of the LA Ripper's rampage. Harrigan, after the murder of his partner Danny, had been desperate and had sought King Willey out, hoping that he knew something about the murders.

Harrigan immediately knew that Willey had to be a lunatic; as soon as he had asked about the killings, Willey had went off on a tirade about ghosts and the spirit world, claiming that the killer had come from "the Other Side." Harrigan was certain that must have been smoking his own product, or something. But then the next day, it was all over the news: King Willey had been found dead and beheaded in the alley where he had met Harrigan. Harrigan had been called into the county morgue the following week to help identify the body, but then how could King Willey be standing here in front of him?

"I saw your body, I…"

            "Tell me Mister Policemon, how do you identify a body that ain't got no head? I be a ghost to your system mon, no fingerprints, no pictures. It was as simple as findin someone to take my place… your friend did the rest."

            "What? My friend?"

            "Ya mon… your friend from de otha side."

            "Man, what the fuck are you talking about? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

            King Willey chuckled again, the sound was beginning to get on his nerves and Harrigan had a feeling that Willey knew it. Willey slowly began to walk away from the circle of light afforded by the bulb. "You don't get it do you Mr. Policemon."

            Suddenly he spun around, his face was deadly serious now. "Did you ever think about how I ever 'came as powerful as I be? I think not Mr. Policemon… do you be thinkin' that I control the west side because I don't be thinkin' straight? No…you don't be gettin' where I be gettin' by being crazy."

            Harrigan had a retort hot on his lips, but Willey kept going on, "Think mon! 1997, that's when all the killin' started. There were three lords on the West Coast, Me, Vascevo, and Cabala. How many be left?

            "None…they're all dead."

            "No, I'm not. 1997, do you know what be happenin' in '97 Mr. Policemon? I was getting stronger every day, the others they be gettin' afraid. They were joinin' together to stop me, I was loosin' ground. None of dem exist any more. They all be dead…but me."

            "What the hell are you getting at."

            Willey, spun around again, slowly melding back into the shadows until all that was left of him was a dark silhouette. His voice continued to boom around the slaughterhouse. "IT came to me, I didn't know who it was… or where it was. One day, I be havin' a meetin' and all my guards be killed in front of me. I thought I would die that day, but It didn't want to kill me…just impress me. You see, It wanted something from me.

            I don't be knowin' much about it, but It…told me what It wanted, and It was gonna give me what I wanted. It wanted people, people to kill. It wanted times, places, numbers…challenges. I knew how to get what It wanted, and It was going to help me too. You see Mister Policemon, I was a man with many enemies. Now I am a man with few livin' ones."

            Harrigan heard the words, but couldn't absorb what King Willey was saying. It sounded like he was saying that the Ripper had come to him…no that what impossible. Willey's voice snapped Harrigan back towards his dark profile. "Do you know why I be tellin' you this mon?"

            "Why?"

            "Because three months ago, my bodyguards were killed again…right in front of my eyes. It didn't want the same things this time, he told me to give him places, people, challenges…but this time it didn't want the same things as last time."

The voice paused, in the shadows, Harrigan though he saw another silhouette just to the side of the King. The voice boomed again, this time with a strange finality, "It wanted something in return Mister Policemon, it wanted…You."

            "Danny boy…" Harrigan heard his own voice, or something that sounded like his voice, echo through the room. He turned, trying to find where the voice came from, but nothing was there. "Do you want some candy?" this time the voice was that of a young child, Harrigan squinted his eyes and continued to look in the direction the voices had come from. He leaned forward in his chair, as much as his bonds would permit, trying to focus on something that he couldn't see. Suddenly there came two yellow flashes, like the eyes of a demon, just inches from Harrigan's face. With a startled scream the Lieutenant tumbled backward, sending his chair toppling to the floor. Twin metal blades materialized above Harrigan's head and came down like twin strikes of lightning. Spreading just before they reached their targets, the blades formed a prison around Harrigan's neck. A deep throaty growl came from the spectral form that hung just above him, and then sparks began to fly. The crackling sound of lightning was soon accompanied by tendrils of light and then it emerged.

            Its metal mask devoid of all emotion, lifeless, and scary beyond anything Harrigan had ever seen.  Its body covered in a mesh-like fishnet, and its skin was a motley green-brown. It growled again as it leaned closer to Harrigan and the claws retracted. It held its left arm up, next to Harrigan's face. All the way up the elbow, it's arm was metal and it made a strange whirring noise as the metal fingers moved with a deadly yet beautiful grace. Flesh met metal just below the elbow; right where Harrigan had cut the arm off the LA Ripper.

            _Oh my God._ Harrigan's mind was racing: It was the same one. It was the same goddamned alien!

            King Willey's voice droned on in the background, Harrigan hardly heard it. "I don't be knowin' what you done to It, but It be wantin' you bad Mr. Policemon, and It's gonna have you."

            Harrigan's mind was still swimming, his eyes fixed on the alien creature standing just a few feet away.

            "But before we be gettin' to details, I need you to meet another friend of yours."

Agent Samuels, cuts and bruises adorning his blindfolded face, was dragged into the light surrounding Harrigan. A gag was taken out of his mouth, and Samuels began coughing violently.

            "Samuels!"

            "Harrigan? Harrigan is that you?" A Jamaican standing next to him, violently rammed the but of a rifle into Samuels stomach. Samuels was knocked onto his knees.

            Harrigan tensed up, the ropes around his wrists began to cut into his skin, but they didn't give way.

            If Willey was afraid that Harrigan might get out, he didn't show it. Instead he kept talking. "Here the rules of the game: You gonna be dropped off somewhere, and we give you a gun. Then It come callin... If you kill It, then you can come back here, your friend will be waitin' for you alive. If it kills you…well he comes back and kills your friend too." A rictus grin spread on Willey's face, "I might be wantin' to say goodbye to him now."

            Harrigan's fear had been replaced by rage now, a rage made stronger by the hopelessness that was clawing desperately in Harrigan's gut. "Don't you touch him, you hear me Willey! You touch him and I'll--"

            "Be doin nothin'" King Willey's voice cut Harrigan off like an icy blade, "You call the police, I be knowin'. You call your friends, I be knowin'. I be watching mon, it's you and Him, anything else, and your friend be dyin', but not before I make him wish he was already dead. Understand Mr. Policemon?"  
With that, Willey and the Creature turned their backs towards Harrigan and slowly began to meld away into the shadows until, like the Cheshire Cat, only a voice remained. "Nothin' left for you here Mr. Policemon…Time to go."

            Harrigan didn't have time to scream as a black bag went quickly over his head, plunging the entire world back into darkness.

End of chapter 3


End file.
